


Penance

by Kierkegarden



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, Heartache, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Minor Injuries, Post Beach Divorce, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sleepwalking, Telepathy, worse than canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 19:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16165070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kierkegarden/pseuds/Kierkegarden
Summary: A month ago, Charles thought the dreams were heartbreak. His new theory is that they’re justice.





	Penance

**Author's Note:**

> So, Cherik was my first OTP since I was a kiddo and got my hands on my brother's old X-Men comics. This is the first time I've written them - or for this fandom at all - and ultimately, I have a niche which is self-denial-themed angst and it couldn't be helped. I'm dreadfully sorry. Feel free to comment or reach out to my Tumblr - also Kierkegarden.

“Give me something, anything.”

Charles stares at the gate again, rattling out of the halfway house that is his most recent recurring dream. What a special mind he has, glorious to engineer this perfect cycle. To focus that beautiful mind on something, _anything_ else - he would almost be willing to give it away.

Charles left girls crying in the gardens outside of this vast estate when he was younger. Now, he sits there, the ever-present creak of wheels a grim reminder that without this mind, he would be nothing. He would have nothing and perhaps, no one. A month ago, he thought the dreams were heartbreak. His new theory is that they’re justice.

Maybe it’s penance for thinking that he could fix Erik.

Charles has always pictured repenting for his sins to be a lot harder on the knees. Every day, he becomes increasingly aware of where feeling stops and where it begins again, where it buzzes and spins wildly in his head like revolving doors twisted into insanity, hinges snapping _angry_ , the luck of one wild mind to fall for one wilder metal-bender. He is simply of a different stock, Charles thinks, that is all there is to be said. Everything else has been said before. Every other excuse has been made.

Maybe it’s penance for thinking Erik could fix him.

 

***

 

“Give me something, anything,” Erik says, to the emptiness, but without a doubt, to Charles. His voice is husky with need. He’s forgotten to eat and drink and sleep for several days now. His eyes are sunken.

“What?” Charles breathes aloud to the cool night air. The tips of his ears and his fingers are where he feels the cold the most. Other than that, he could forget about it entirely and pretend he’s dreaming.

The other man fumbles for words, pushing back sweat-soaked hair - undoubtedly he’s also forgotten to bathe. A truly untenable wreck, Charles thinks, vaguely concerned that within the week, Erik will forget how to add firewood to the moral bonfire that occasionally takes over as his primary form of sustenance.

Charles tenses. “Erik, I can’t...why are you letting me in now? _Why now_?”

And then the revolving doors of his mind, ever spinning, close on Erik’s hunched over figure. Charles is released, spinning wildly through the darkness and cold, until he’s shaken awake by the same set of concerned hands and before he opens his eyes, Hank is wheeling him through the gate, across the garden and through the back door of the X-Mansion.

Charles looks candidly up at him and Hank looks away.

“I...couldn’t sleep.”

But Charles doesn’t have to use telepathy to know that he’s lying.

 

***

 

“Give me something, anything,” Erik says, but this time Charles is prepared.

He looks directly at the mirage and it’s so lifelike that he _hears_ his heart break - an even snap, unhinged and aware of it. “I gave you everything,” the telepath replies, as he would on any real day, through the mind of the receiver. His gentle voice reveals only a small fragment of his gentle, quiet anger.

“I need you,” Erik thinks back, almost wanton with desperation. It would be funny if it weren’t so damned sad.

Charles looks blankly forward. “Let me count the ways.”

“Your legs,” Erik leans into it, thinking something like _release me._

“My trust,” corrects Charles.

“Your heart,” thinks Erik.

Charles scoffs. “You wouldn’t do this if anyone could see you. Coward.”

The revolving doors burn red-hot as they slam into his face. It’s just pretend anyway, Charles thinks furtively. He can think whatever he wants at Erik because it’s just a dream.

“Come on, old man,” Hank’s voice is tender as it is tired, “Let’s get you back into the warmth.”

 

***

 

“Alright, so you’re dreaming,” thinks Erik, the next night, into the vast expanse that is Charles’s mind. The sheets are so chill against his back that his whole body shivers. He realizes passively that he must be running a high fever. “So there are no consequences.”

“Wrong,” corrects Charles, like clockwork. Erik smirks, secure in the knowledge that they are both suffocating without each other,

“Even Dream Erik can’t control his temper. You slammed the door on me for calling you a coward.”

Erik stops smirking.

“Maybe you slammed it on yourself because you know that _you’re_ the coward.”

Charles’s laugh is unlike any that Erik has heard before - rugged and clipped and echoing in the otherwise silent conversation.

“Dream Erik is awfully meta today. But touché. I’m the one having therapy with myself, aren’t I, dear?”

“Tell me,” says Erik, his thoughts taking a new tone, “Please. Did I have it? Do I?”

Charles is fidgeting with something physical, Erik can tell, clawing to stay in the conversation.

“Have what?”

“For God’s sake, Charles,” Erik toys with the helmet, half-wanting to slam it on his head and end the conversation before he finds out the answer, “Do you love me?”

As if deciding for him, Charles’s presence dissipates without a word.

 

***

 

When Charles’s eyes flicker open, Sean Cassidy is standing over him with a warm, wet towel. He can hear Hank in the bathroom, scrambling for something. His head is throbbing.

“What happened?” Charles asks through swollen lips. He can taste sticky blood and alcohol on his tongue.

Hank appears with a bandage and some antibacterial ointment of his own design. “You tell me. I came to check up on you in your usual spot and you were face down in the garden in front of your chair. You were next to a shattered glass of what I can only assume is gin, by the smell.”

“You cut your forehead open and bruised your lip up good,” says Sean, smearing the ointment over the wounds. “Do you remember pushing yourself up with your arms?”

Charles feels his left bicep, massaging the muscle that is still definitely sore. He nods, blinking back tears. He is sure he did this to himself but he can’t for the life of him remember why.

When he falls asleep once more in his own bed, Charles is met with blissful silence.

 

***

 

Erik doesn’t visit him the next night, or the night after that. The nightmares end as suddenly as they began. For the most part, Charles is glad of it. He hears Hank’s soft snores as he wheels past his room on the third night to get a glass of water. There is a certain serenity in that.

Maybe I am finally free, Charles thinks, as he tries not to think about the answer.

Maybe the penance has been paid, Charles thinks, as he tries not to think about how, in the low-light of a garden at night - to tired, drunken eyes - swiveling helmets look like revolving doors.


End file.
